


The Handler

by saturn_in_retrograde



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, I'm just sorry the dogs had to see that, Intercrural Sex, John has a voice kink, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Naughty Sherlock, Posh boy, Protective John, Sassy John, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Shower Sex, Smut, Snarky Mycroft, alternative universe, dog handler John, dog kennel sex, hot sherlock, job interview sex, lots of dog training metaphors, love at first sight/voice, mutual masterbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturn_in_retrograde/pseuds/saturn_in_retrograde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is injured after a mission and is resting at Mycroft's estate, bored out of his mind. That is, until the handsome Captain John Watson shows up to interview for a job as a dog handler. Sherlock decides to have some fun with a fake interview, but the Captain might ultimately have a few lessons for Sherlock about animal behavior...</p><p>An alternate universe retelling of how Sherlock and John met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bored

**Author's Note:**

> So I was watching the Westminster Kennel Club dog show, and this is what happened....

Sherlock sipped at his tea and jabbed at the keyboard with his finger, moving to the next screen on the security monitors to watch the candidates. It was the only thing he could find to do to keep his brain from atrophying. Why Mycroft had ever allowed his assistant Anthea to interview her dog handler candidates at his estate while he was away for the month, he did not know. Why she had such a fondness for her unmanageable, high-strung but impeccably bred shih tzu show dogs, he could not fathom. Sherlock shuddered; horrible little creatures. Mycroft’s estate kept German Shepherds for security, but he stayed out of that area.

The candidates for the job were arriving and going through necessary security checks at the gate, getting out of the car each time to be looked over. All so very ordinary. Earnest young men with ill-fitting suits and sensible shoes; middle-aged women with cardigan sweaters and thick ankles. He deduced the life stories about each person to amuse himself and found them all sadly wanting.

He adjusted his aching foot that was encased in a boot cast to a more comfortable spot on top of the antique kilim ottoman. He’d had a bit of a scuffle in Serbia while on assignment for Mycroft; things hadn’t gone quite according to plan. He’d had to improvise, more than a little. Mycroft’s people whisked him out of the country with bruises and a broken ankle, leaving behind a bit of a sticky political situation. Mycroft had ensconced him at his estate, keeping him out of sight and hoping the incident would die down. No one was to know he was here while he was _convalescing_. Which sounded so much better than _exiled_. He sighed heavily and loosened the sash on his dressing gown that he wore over pajama pants and a t-shirt that he had not bothered to change out of after breakfast. Or for the past week, for that matter.

_Bored bored bored._

The next candidate arrived, but this time on a motorcycle. Black leather jacket, cargo-style khakis, heavy leather boots, grey t-shirt pulled tight across the chest visible where the jacket lay open, and aviator style sunglasses. The motorcycle came to a stop and the rider reached up to take off his helmet, revealing blonde hair and a handsome face. He swung his leg over the bike to stand up, back ramrod straight, and held his arms up quite naturally as if he’d done it a million times before as the security agent waved a wand over him.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair with interest. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as his gaze roved over the man, admiring the way his broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the way his lean hips and defined arse and thighs were visible below the jacket that was hiked up due to the raised arms.

_Not bored._

Before he got back on the bike, he saw the man speak to the security guard and point at the motorcycle. He watched in astonishment as the man authoritatively gestured at the under vehicle inspection mirror propped up against the wall of the security kiosk, then walked over a few steps and grabbed it. Sherlock noticed a slight limp in one leg and then his eyes moved to the tip of a cane sticking out of a motorcycle saddlebag. The man then proceeded to show the security guard how to properly inspect the underside of the motorcycle and when finished, he handed it back. The guard sheepishly accepted the lesson with as much dignity as he could muster, and then gave him a salute. _A salute_. His interest suddenly tripled.

Sherlock picked up a phone to speak to the security guard, glancing at the name on a file as he did so.

“James, please escort that candidate to the main house.”

“Not to the kennels first, sir?”

“No. And have one of the dogs brought up.”

“One of Miss Anthea’s dogs?”

“No. Bring Sergeant.”

There was a slight pause at the end of the line before the hesitant reply came. “Right away, sir.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, a slight smile playing across his lips.


	2. The Voice

John held his helmet in his hand as he entered the main house, trying not to be intimidated by the posh interior. The tip of his cane made a tapping sound on the marble floor with each step he took, echoing ominously in the imposing silence. Quite a bit different from his utilitarian tent in Afghanistan, where everything had been brown and bleak, noisy and crowded, and constantly covered with a coating of gritty dust and sand that got in the eyes and nose and mouth. It was going to take a while to get used to this sort of thing again; life as a civilian. But then he had to laugh a little to himself. Hell, this house was a step above “civilian.”

He spun around reflexively when he heard the click of toenails on the marble floor behind him and caught sight of a large German shepherd being led carefully by the guard from the gate. The dog strained at the end of the leash, energy barely contained, and stared at him intensely with eyes alert and ears pitched forward. Assessing him. _Friend or foe? Make your move, fucker, and let’s find out_ , the dog seemed to say.

The leash was held out to him and John transferred his helmet to under his arm, his eyes narrowing as he then took hold of the leather loop.

“What, we’re going to do an interview right here? In the living room? Not down by the kennels with the other candidates?”

The security guard shrugged. “Not my place to say, sir.”

“Crazy rich people,” John murmured under his breath and the guard smiled slightly, possibly in agreement, before he left.

 _Whatever._ People did crazy things and he’d long ago stopped trying to understand the human race and the devastation it wreaked upon itself. But dogs, now, dogs he understood. He’d grown up with dogs, handled dogs for years in his special unit in the army, and ultimately became a Veterinary Officer. He’d rather a hundred times spend his day alone with dogs than with people, and he hoped he could get a job doing just that.

John straightened up and planted his feet wide apart, taking up space and holding his ground as he firmly spoke to the dog.

“Come.” The dog immediately lost its rigid posture and fell in a pace behind him as they walked into the living room.

“Sit,” he commanded again, and the dog complied, completely still and waited for further instruction.

He tucked the leash handle between his knees for a moment, then leaned his cane against an obviously antique and rickety-looking end table and set his helmet down on a settee. He ran his now free hands through his hair, a little damp with sweat from the helmet, then took off his sunglasses and tucked them into a jacket pocket.

“Welcome, Dr. Watson,” a posh voice said, loud and a bit tinny as it filtered through what had to be an intercom, but even with the distortion, it was arrestingly attractive.

John jumped, immediately on the defensive as his head spun in different directions trying to identify the location of the speakers while at the same time looking for a camera, which he was now sure must be trained on him.

The dog barked sharply, reacting to his negative energy. Shit. Too many years on a hair trigger. John slowed his breathing, realizing the threat was low. Without thinking he gave the dog a hand signal to stay quiet and the dog complied again. John looked down at the dog in surprise. He instantly knew the dog was ex-military, or at least trained by someone from the military.

“Crazy rich people are also generally paranoid people,” the voice said. “Yes, the room is miked, and there are cameras as you’ve already surmised.”

“ _Fuck me_ ,” John swore under his breath, knowing he’d been caught out for his former ill-timed statement, assuming this interview was over before it had even begun. His normally straight shoulders sagged a little. Shit. He was broke. And this could have been a sweet gig. Why couldn’t he just keep his goddamn mouth shut.

“Well, allow me to conduct the interview first, and then I’ll decide about that,” the voice said, deep and low and smooth as silk, the tone riding a line between chastisement and amusement. And possibly something else...

John flushed at the subtle rebuke, while at the same time a responsive frisson ran down his spine at the blatant innuendo and sound of that voice. Haughty. Elegant. _Sexy_.

Shit. His hand moved to the back of his increasingly warm neck, rubbing it, his back straightening again as his eyes roamed around the room again in search of the cameras.

“Well, let’s get on it with, then,” John said confidently—more like “cocky,” his former CO would have said—his voice more clipped and bossy than he intended. He found himself a bit ill at ease with this unusual arrangement and the erotic direction his own thoughts were taking. _It’s just a fucking voice over an intercom. Get a grip, Watson. You need this job_.

“As you wish,” the voice practically purred.


	3. Get To It

On screen, Sherlock watched Dr. John Watson handle that savage, pig-headed beast of a dog like he was a groveling puppy. Like he knew he would. One only had to look at him to know that, he’d deduced it instantly.

Sherlock leaned towards the microphone. “Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Sorry?”

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What? How could you possibly—" he started to say, then broke off. “Of course. You read my file.”

Sherlock reached for the file, which he actually hadn’t read at all save for the name on the spine, but he didn't need a file to tell him where John Watson had just come from; the hair, the stance, the tone, the tan, the clothes, the security check, all obviously pointing to the military. 

Nevertheless, he quickly flipped through the pages. “Ah yes, I see it right here now. Afghanistan. Referred by Mike Stamford, whoever that is."

John cut in. "Mike Stamford is your horse vet."

"Is he? We have horses? How extraordinary."

John sighed in exasperation. "You do actually have more than one dog, right?"

Sherlock continued on as if he hadn't heard a word. "Oh, this is interesting. 1st Military Working Dog Regiment. Rank of Captain. Most recently an Officer in the Royal Army Veterinary Corps. A rising star.” Sherlock paused. “Bit overqualified for this sort of job, don’t you think? Battlefield to glorified dog walker?”

Sherlock could see him tense, could see his jaw working. Yet John Watson controlled his temper, at least momentarily, and answered evenly. “Depends on how you see it. I like working with dogs. I like money. I’d like to make money while working with dogs.”

“Hmmm. Of course.” Sherlock continued to pursue the file. “Ah, I see now. Medically discharged. That explains the career cut short and the cane, then.”

John Watson gritted his teeth. “Yes, that explains it.” Now he was beginning to show a little anger. “Look, it sounds like you’re just reading my file for the first time. Is this for real? Is this even a real job? You don't even know what animals you have. Forgive me for saying, but this is all just kind of…weird.”

Sherlock snapped the file shut, sat up in his chair, his mind working quickly. Time to tighten things up. Get professional. Actually, he didn’t know anything about the job. He didn’t know much about dogs. That was actually fascinating news about the horses they apparently owned, he should walk around the estate more often. All he knew was that Anthea wanted to start showing her dogs professionally and needed a handler, and that was about it.

“I assure you, this is quite serious. I’m quite serious about being handled.” Well, that hadn’t come out right, but he couldn’t stop staring at the tendon flexing in that strong and tanned neck, just where the jaw met the throat, just where one might search out a pulse with fingertips or lips...and it was very distracting. He felt a flush start across his own face at the thought of being handled by Captain John Watson’s capable hands.

“I mean, serious about hiring a handler. For my dogs,” Sherlock finished quickly.

The man said nothing for a while, standing still and evaluating the situation. Eventually, a shadow of a smile spread across his face.

“Oh, I can handle your boys excellently.” He paused. “Handle your dogs, I mean.”

The flush deepened on Sherlock’s face. This was getting interesting.

_Definitely not bored._

“Let’s get to it, then, Captain,” Sherlock murmured into the microphone.


	4. The Interview

John Watson felt warm. Very warm. And more than a little bit aroused, if he was honest. It was an interesting feeling, being observed like this. It was bringing out some sass in him. He wondered who was behind that voice. Deep, resonating, authoritative. Manipulative, also, he suspected. He was generally impervious to that sort of thing; he’d been trained to withstand torture, for god’s sake. Oddly, though, he felt he wouldn’t mind doing just about anything that voice told him to do. _And like it_.

“You look flushed. Perhaps you would be more comfortable if you removed your jacket,” the voice suggested.

“Yeah, all right,” John said, after only a moment’s hesitation, and shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it on the settee next to the helmet. “What now?”

“Walk the dog around in a circle. Slowly. First one direction, then the other.”

John picked up the leash. “Heel,” he commanded, as he began to move forward. The dog followed.

“Slower!” the voice demanded. "Angle your body 30 degrees to the left."

John slowed down, turned his body to the left and kept moving.

“Yes, that's it. Nice. Very nice,” the voice said appreciatively, after a long minute.

“I’m just walking,” John said impatiently. “Nothing too complicated. Not really showing off my skills...”

“Oh, but you are. Your performance is giving me an idea of your...assets. Now bend over--no, your back to the fireplace, please--and touch your toes.”

John turned and leaned down and held his pose for ten seconds or so, growing more and more self-conscious. Finally he stopped and stood up straight, hands on hips, flushing again. “Are you even looking at the dog?” he demanded.

“Had to know how you might do on my obstacle course, it does take some flexibility,” the voice drawled.

“Seen enough of my _assets_?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not nearly enough. I can’t make any final decisions yet. We’ll have to proceed further. If you’re willing to go that far...”

A frisson ran down John’s spine again. He liked what he was hearing. But could hardly believe what he was hearing, or _thought_ he was hearing, and his arousal was increasing by the second. This sort of thing just didn’t happen. Nothing ever happened to him. But...yeah. He was willing to take it further.

“What next, then?” John asked, challenging.

“Now show me how you trained your dogs, when you were in the military. Take him through some commands.”

“Why do you think this dog will know the commands?”

“I saw you give him a hand gesture earlier. He’s responding to you. That brute of a dog hasn’t been successfully controlled by anyone else around here. In fact it's so bad he's on the verge of being put down. I think he’s been waiting for you all his life.”

“Is that so?” John looked down at the dog. “Maybe I just know what he needs.” He gave him a quick rub between the ears. “We’ve all been waiting for someone all our lives, haven’t we, fella?”


	5. Unzip

_We've all been waiting for someone all our lives..._

Rather unexpectedly, those words cut into Sherlock. For a brief moment, sitting here in this room with not another soul on this earth to call a friend other than his brother-and that was stretching it-he suddenly felt more alone than he had in a long, long time.

Perhaps it was the pain medication. Perhaps it was something else he didn’t care to name that made him speak again. He wanted to see John Watson react, lose his veneer of civility. See inside of him.

“How were you wounded?” he asked suddenly. “You were wounded, yes? Despite the fact that I think your limp is psychosomatic.”

The man looked shocked. “I was wounded, yes. Nearly killed, if you must know."

"How?"

"The dogs sniffed out an IED. One went off. Men and dogs were wounded, I ran to help. Straight into another IED. Classic insurgent move. We should have known.”

Sherlock could see John Watson's fists clenching at his side, his eyes now shut tight, struggling against the dangerous memories. As Sherlock watched him relive that moment, he could almost see and feel the sudden blinding flash and heat, could almost anticipate that odd second of silence before the sudden blast of wind that must have blown John Watson off his feet, torn bits of metal flying in the air, the sound of gunfire and the terrified screams of men and dogs all around. It was hard to watch someone else remember their pain, fight their inner demons; a battle that he knew only too well. He felt strangely close to him in that moment, as if an invisible thread stretched between them.

“Were there...deaths?”

“Yes. Many. Far too many. Men. And dogs. My own dog, too.” John Watson took a deep breath, then his eyes snapped open. “Where is that bloody camera?” he suddenly demanded. “Where is it?"

Sherlock hesitated only briefly. “Look over the fireplace. The portrait.”

John turned his head slightly and looked up, and Sherlock found himself staring straight into those vivid blue eyes that did not waver. With the way John’s body was quivering with barely contained emotion, he was almost glad a wall separated them. Almost.

“Is that really necessary to know for the job? Want to know more?” John Watson gritted out. He commanded the dog to lie down with his hand. Then he reached down to his waist and untucked his shirt, pulling it off over his head. He turned around, presenting his back to the camera. On his back was a massive scar, thready crisscrosses in the form of a large misshapen mass completely covering his left shoulder.

Sherlock paled, his hand compulsively reaching across his chest to his own shoulder, wanting to reach through the screen to touch.

John turned back to stare into the camera again. “Is that proof enough for you? Am I good enough for you? Tough enough to be your fucking dog groomer?”

Sherlock’s eyes roamed down from the man’s angry face, down the taught column of his throat, to his chest covered in sandy hair which tapered to a trail that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. He could see a large bulge outlined against the side of John Watson's leg. Sherlock’s mouth went dry.

“I…forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been told I’m not very good with...people.”

John’s eyes narrowed and he placed his hands on his hips again in an aggressive stance, chest out. “No shit. But I’m not here to work with people, am I? Now let’s get on with this or stop wasting my time. Now tell me what the fuck you want me to do!”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the man’s waistband, on the strong fingers splayed over his hips angling down towards his groin, as if pointing the way. His increasingly powerful desire for this man was pushing him past all rational thought.

"Pulling rank on me, Captain?"

"Yeah. And I think you like it."

Oh, he liked it. He liked it a lot. He did not know what came over him to say what he said next. But he said it anyway.

“Unzip your trousers.”


	6. Mutual Satisfaction

John Watson stared up at the portrait of a dapper-looking man in a three piece suit holding an umbrella, somehow hiding a camera, his chest rising and falling with his deep and angry breaths. Where should he look? The eyes, the nose, the crotch, the umbrella handle? It all seemed worthy of a spy novel.

And _fuck_ if this wasn’t turning him on. He was already hard, wondered if the camera was catching that detail. He was trying to picture who lay behind that goddamn beautiful voice that had just commanded him to unzip. Probably some fat, eighty-year old crazy white-haired pervert in a toga. Or maybe this pervy umbrella dude in the portrait. At that very moment, he didn’t really care. All he cared about was how that voice wrapped around him, controlled him.

He felt flayed, dissected, wide open for view to this strange person who asked him personal questions, assumed things about him that he couldn't possibly know, made him say and do things he normally wouldn't. Made him _feel_. It had been a while since he’d felt anything, anything at all. He’d been comfortably numb after coming back. And now here he was, feeling everything all at once; pissed off, intrigued, vulnerable, horny as hell.

This was crazy. _This was a fucking job interview_ , he reminded himself. But that last ditch effort at recovering his sanity wasn’t enough to stop what he did next. His hand went to his zipper and he pulled it down slowly. When he finished, his hand stopped, awaiting further direction. Trying to ignore the dog that was lying on the floor a few feet away with its head on its paws, staring up at him.

“Take it out,” the voice commanded.

John started to comply, but then stopped. “No. Not unless you do the same.”

There was only a slight hesitation before the voice spoke again. “Already one step ahead of you.”

John laughed. “You’d better not be lying.”

He pulled the sides of his unzipped trousers open wider, planted his legs more firmly in place. Then, looking down, he hooked his thumbs into his waistband, pulled his pants down a few inches. Slid his hand in, grabbed his rock hard cock and it sprang free with a tug. John let his hands drop to his sides, straightened his back and let his full length jut out proudly before him, then slowly raised his eyes up to the camera again. He wasn’t ashamed of what he had; he knew he was well-endowed, knew he’d never failed to please anyone.

"Why don’t you come down here in person and suck me off?” he said, a sly challenge in his voice.

The voice ignored him. “Stroke it.”

John took his cock in his hand, began to touch himself. “Tell me what you look like? So I can imagine what you’re doing to yourself. It’ll make it even better for me, and better for you, since you like to watch."

“Alright, if you find it helpful. I’m six foot tall. Slender, on the pale side. I have dark, curly hair, a bit on the long side which my brother tells me isn’t professional. Mid-thirties. I’m told I’m handsome,” the voice finished, in a dryly sarcastic and self-deprecating tone.

John snorted. _Yeah, right. As if._ He’d just been given a description of his ideal man. _No fucking way_. Definitely a fat eighty-year old pervert, then.

“Yeah, sure. But thanks for that image, anyway. It’s working. But keep talking, I like it.”

The voice purred into the microphone. “I like to watch, but I think you like to listen. Is that your kink, Dr. Watson?"

Christ, that was obviously true. There were nights in Afghanistan when his former CO, yet another inappropriately higher-ranked lover, James Sholto, would tie him up and blindfold him and whisper in his ear with a deep voice not unlike this one, saying incredibly filthy things that always made him come too fast but so, so very hard, leaving him wrecked.

"I think you like a soldier, is what I think," John said, giving himself a particularly long and slow pull, perfectly angled for the camera to see. “Is that _your_ kink? Maybe you like to be bossed as much as you like doing the bossing.”

The voice moved on, not missing a beat. "Listen to me carefully. Let me tell you what I would do to that magnificent cock of yours if I was down there. I would get down on my knees in front of you. You’d bury your hands in my hair and pull me into you. I like it a little rough, so don't go easy on me. I’d take you in my mouth. All the way in, as far as you could go, I can take all of you, it's one of my finest skills...You pumping in and out, all the way back in my throat…”

The voice continued, low and seductive, in more and more detail, and John shut his eyes, his hand moving faster and faster, the erotic images running fast across his mind. Filled with the arousal from fear of being walked in on at any moment, adrenaline coursing through him at the thrill of possible discovery, that deep, filthy voice in the air all around him, it was no time at all before his cock jerked, his knees buckled and he sank to the ground.

“Fuck,” he groaned softly, breathing heavily, his hand still moving. “ _Fuck_.” He was quiet, he’d learned to be quiet; tent walls were thin. He was spurting into his hand and up onto his abdomen and chest and it went on and on, his cock pulsing and his hips bucking up again and again until he finally slumped forward.

And then immediately after, through the intercom, a long grunt followed by a definitely-not-quiet shout; “ _Jesus fucking hell!"_

The microphone screeched from the intensity of the volume, the tinny sound finally receding until a silence settled over the room for a few long seconds.

The dog whined.

John looked over at the dog, suddenly aware of how absurd this must look, and had to stifle something almost like a giggle under his breath, giddy with release that felt like it had been pent up for months. He'd always found the wrong things funny. Sex and death, usually. The dog thumped its tail against the floor. “I’m ok, boy. I’m ok.”

He ought to feel weird about this. Really, really weird. But he didn’t, he just didn’t. Something about that beautiful voice had just got to him; and oddly, he trusted it. He got up and walked over to the settee, picked up his shirt and wiped himself clean with it. Trusted that this was a contained incident, just between the two of them. Somehow sure it wouldn't be spread all over the Internet tomorrow.

He kept his back to the camera as he slipped himself back in and pulled up the zipper, his mind full of conflicting thoughts. In the end he didn’t know what to think, he just had to get out. He picked up his jacket and put it on over his bare chest and zipped it up all the way, shoving his shirt into a pocket. He took out his sunglasses and pushed them slowly up his nose with his index finger. Picked up his helmet and took the dog’s leash in his hand. He finally turned around to face the camera, eyes hidden behind the dark lenses.

“Thanks for the interview. I’ll call to follow up, yeah?”

It was silent for so many seconds that John thought his viewer might have already turned off the camera.

“Don’t forget your cane,” the voice finally said, softly.

Well, shit. He’d almost forgot about the cane. Almost forgot he needed the bloody cane. He picked it up from where it lay against the probably hideously expensive end table.

And then he walked out. Handed off the dog to the guard at the front gate, got on his motorcycle, and left.


	7. Now or Never

One week later, Sherlock watched John Watson from a distance. He was feeding the dogs and they jumped in their cages as he drew near, barking in excitement. It was obvious they adored him; they followed his every command, pirouetted in circles to chase their own tails when he came near. How they had changed in the span of a few days since the former kennel master, a mean and sly man who had little love for the dogs, or for him, for that matter-called them all a pack of freaks-had unexpectedly quit.

Not that he knew anything about _that_. Always so unfortunate when one’s private and embarrassing affairs were splashed all over the front page of the news. Couldn’t imagine how that might have happened...

He’d thought constantly about John Watson over the past few days. A virtual stranger who drove in on a motorcycle and left with a little piece of his soul; he had no other way to describe it. Nothing like it had ever happened to him before; he was in equal parts intrigued, hopeful, and angry about the whole thing. This was something that he didn't seem to have any control over; for the first time ever, he felt he was losing it. And it was terrifying.

He approached slowly, using crutches to make his way across the garden. He was almost free of them and expected a clean bill of health in a day or two. As well, certain political situations had been cleaned up and he could come out of hiding. And then, freedom. He would be able to leave the estate. It had taken time to work up the courage to come down here, practically on the eve of his impending departure, not sure how John would react. _Stupid_ , he chided himself. _Coward. Hopeless_. The usual judgmental litany of words running through his head. What could anyone possibly see in him, anyway?

He didn’t expect any sudden recognition, John Watson had no idea what he looked like. He felt fairly confident about his personal safety, at least for the time being. The moment he spoke, though, that might be a different story.

He stood at the end of the row of kennels, each a ten-by-ten square of chain link panels, eight feet tall, all connected together with sturdy posts to hold the panels straight. The kennels were in a shady area behind a modern barn, well on the periphery of the estate. Branches from a large tree draped over the top of the last kennel, which was empty, forming a shady canopy. It was a while before he was noticed under the shadow of the leaves.

John was working his way down towards his end. Today he wore those same khaki trousers, heavy work boots, and a white t-shirt. The chain of his dog tags was visible before it disappeared under the shirt. The muscles of his arms rippled as he bent and flexed and picked things up and moved about, scratched the dogs on the head or laughed as they jumped up to put their paws on his chest to give him a lick.

That last dog doing the licking was Sergeant, Sherlock realized. Sergeant had hated the last kennel master, but how he loved the new one. Lucky for the dog, his behavior was now so changed he would live another day. Possibly proving that hackneyed old adage; _there was no such thing as a bad dog, just a bad master_.  Maybe it was true. Maybe it was never too late to be reformed under the care of loving hands. Suddenly he’d never wanted to believe anything more in his life.

John finally looked up and wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. It was late morning on a sultry August day, already hot and humid.

“Can I help you?” he asked. “I’m Watson. John Watson. The new kennel master.”

Sherlock sighed, leaned against a post and crossed his arms over his chest. Now or never.

“I know who you are.”


	8. Right Man for the Job

John froze. That voice. Unmistakable. He did a double take, his eyes roaming over the tall, slender man in black dress pants and purple button down shirt with sleeves rolled up over sleek forearms, lounging against the kennels, one dark curl flopping down over an eye in the breeze.

“You. _You!”_ " he stuttered. He stared at him with his mouth open, a little dazed, then finally shut it. “My god, you really weren’t lying when you described yourself to me! I never thought...I mean... _damn_.”

He was truly the most gorgeous thing he’d seen in a long, long time. Maybe ever. And to think he’d wanked off in front of...and he did the same while watching him...and now, seeing it all together...the voice finally matched to a body that he would have picked out of a crowd anywhere as his absolute ideal... _fuck_. He felt a sudden surge of furious desire race through him. His eyes roamed over the man before him, who stared back with cautiously hooded eyes and a tense bearing which suggested he might turn to run at any moment, were it not for a heavy black boot cast on one foot and a pair of crutches at his sides.

Shit, he couldn’t stop staring at those razor-sharp cheekbones, those legs that went on forever. At that beautifully formed column of a pale neck disappearing into a shirt with buttons open a few down from the top and the rest straining to keep the fabric together. That smooth chest that was visible through the open buttons; nicely toned but not overly developed, suggesting something of a lithe academic type. Or a martial arts expert. Maybe both. He couldn’t quite get a fix on the color of the eyes, but he certainly intended to find out.

He began to advance on him, his finger pointing towards him in the air. “Why, I ought to...”

He stripped his gloves off as he walked, heedlessly threw them on the ground behind him and finally stopped to stand in front of the other man. John was several inches shorter; but his own shoulders were wider, he noticed, his own arms more powerful. His own skin, browned from the desert sun, stood out in stark relief to the cool paleness of the other man. His own unremarkable hair, so straight and sandy brown and sporting a cut that was choppy and sparse like the landscape he’d just come from compared unfavorably, he knew, to that darkly rich and lush and curly hair he already ached to run his fingers through. They were opposites, attracting.

He held his hands to his side, though, first needing some answers.

“You’ve got some explaining to do. I did call back, you know. Imagine my surprise over what came next. As far as the lady with the shih tzus knew, I was never even here! So I lost that show dog handler job, thanks to you. And as if that wasn't bad enough, imagine my further surprise when I learned there was never even any job with German Shepherds! I sounded like a fucking idiot!”

The man said nothing, his eyes sliding away from John’s, then sliding back again.

“Imagine yet again how surprised I was when the day after that, I get a call with an offer for _this_ job! Suddenly, inexplicably vacated by the former kennel master! You wouldn’t know anything about _that_ , now would you? Was that because of you, too?”

“Well," the man simply said, offering no explanation. “Now here you are.”

“Yeah. Now here I am.”

The man suddenly sighed and rolled his eyes a little. “But honestly, wouldn’t you rather do this than parade about with those hideous little shih tzus?”

John suddenly advanced, bumping his chest into his, knocking the taller man off his balance to fall into the chain link fence behind him. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that yes, _god yes_ , he’d rather be doing this, left alone to run the kennels and train the dogs he was so familiar with and that he missed so much. The man’s crutches fell away to either side of him, and he grabbed on to the fence for support with his long and elegant fingers. The dogs started barking, excited by the sudden shaking of the kennel panels.

“Careful!” he said. “I’m hurt. See? I’ve got this boot cast thing!”

“You’re not that delicate, you little shit.” John raised his arm and pressed it across the other man's chest from wrist to elbow, pinning him, yet being extra careful not to hurt him, looking deep into his eyes for answers. “I don’t really understand any of this. I don’t know whether I want to punch you or fuck you.”

“Usually when it gets to this point—and I assure you, it usually does—most go for the punch. But might I suggest the alternative…” he started cheekily, but then his voice died away. “I’m not sorry,” the man blurted out, belligerent, his head held high as he looked down at him with eyes that were a curious stormy mixture of blues and greens and golds. “I’m not sorry, not one bit. Not for any of it. And neither are you, not really.”

John Watson suddenly pulled his arm away, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and spun him around, that gorgeous face now to the fence, his own chest pressed into his back, his hands now at his back.

“Someone should teach you not to screw around with other people.”

“Many have tried,” the other man quipped, trying to retain a sense of bravado, but John could hear him breathing heavily, felt him trembling, took in the spectacle of him laid out before him. Hands splayed out to either side, head bowed, fingers hooked into the wire links, flexing as they gripped. Thigh and arse muscles straining as he held himself up against the fence.

John's hands let go of the fabric of the back of his shirt, then suddenly dropped them to that arse so perfectly outlined by those perfectly cut black trousers, gripping firmly, then releasing, gliding his hands over the smoothly taut material, touching everywhere he wanted to.

“Looks to me like maybe they need to hire a handler for _you_ ,” John said again, still a little angry, but increasingly aroused, pressing closer, lips now nearly against that long neck.

“My brother would agree,” the man answered again, a little breathlessly, but then grew quiet. The atmosphere seemed to thicken as he slowly turned his head to look slightly over his shoulder and down at John, the expression on his face suddenly changing; becoming darker, more serious...dangerous, desirous, his eyes finding John’s and holding them.

“So far I haven’t found the right man for the job,” he said slowly, his sexy voice deliberately provoking. Low and smooth and resonating, just like that day in the living room. He may just as well have flipped a switch, the way John responded. John felt his cock jump, a heat forming low in his groin. John pressed forward harder still; he was sure the man must feel his erection at the back of his thighs.

“Pretty sure I can fill that position,” John said, suddenly a little hoarse, heart pounding faster.

His lips were sliding over the back of Sherlock’s neck, now licking and nipping at it, something almost savage filling him. John’s hands snaked possessively around the man’s waist, slid to the front of his trousers, flicked at the button to open it. But as he breathed in the scent of expensive cologne and soap that rose above the hot skin of that graceful neck, so clean and pure and civilized and like nothing he had smelled for years on his sweaty, boozy, leathery desert comrades, it made his head swim, his anger subside, almost lifted him out of the moment; it smelled like coming home.

“Shit, this is crazy, I don’t even know who you are,” John murmured, nuzzling at an ear as his hands continued their work, but slower now. God, this was crazy, but it just felt _right_.

The man hesitated for a moment, but then spoke. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s hands and lips paused for a moment, Sherlock Holmes’ zipper halfway down. “Holmes? As in the Holmes who own this estate?”

“My brother Mycroft owns it, yes. I’m just an occasional guest here.”

John started to draw his hands away. “Christ. I can’t-”

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Please. We can keep this…quiet.”

“Well, I already know you're a bit of a screamer, actually, so you might need to work on the quiet thing." Then John laughed a little. “Oh, hell. I don’t care if you’re my boss. I wouldn't care if you were the bloody King of England. Nothing could make me stop now.” Then he began to take the zipper down again.

“I’m not your boss,” Sherlock interjected, arching back against him like a cat stretching in pleasure as John’s fingers brushed against him.

“Close enough, which actually kind of turns me on even more,” John growled into his ear. “Now you listen to me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Do you have any idea what this last week has been like? Hell, let me tell you. HELL. Thinking I lost a job, then getting a job. Moving. Working really hard. Hasn't been easy sleeping at night, thinking of those things you said to me…what we did...wondering if I'd ever run across you again.”

He gave the zipper one last hard pull to bring it all the way down. “But now it seems I’ve got you where I want you, doesn’t it? Nobody makes me jack off in front of a camera and then just walks away, _nobody_ , you got that?”

He slid his left hand inside to close around Sherlock’s already engorged cock, and Sherlock moaned deep in the back of his throat. John reached up and slid his other hand into Sherlock’s hair, buried his fingers in his curls, then sharply pulled back on his head, speaking into his ear again.

“You’ve been very naughty. I’m in charge this time. Now you'll do as _I_ say.”

He let go of his hair and Sherlock’s head snapped forward, his forehead resting against the cool metal, fingers curling into the links, just holding on. John slid his fingers up Sherlock’s throat, under his jaw, then into his mouth. Sherlock greedily sucked on them and his mouth felt wet, smooth, warm.

John wedged a knee between his legs, nudged his feet apart with a heavy work boot. “We don’t have time to do this properly, but I _am_ going to know what it feels like to rub my dick against that perfect arse.”

He reached down to quickly undo his own fly, pulled himself out. Then he tugged down Sherlock’s trousers, watching them slide over silky boxers, and he pulled those down, too, until they rested about mid-thigh, greedily taking in the sight of his bare flesh now exposed. He moaned as he felt the pleasure of the friction as he slid in between Sherlock’s legs, began thrusting his hips forward and back, slowly at first. He was taking his time, shoving Sherlock into the fence with each thrust, holding Sherlock’s length in his hand and stroking him to his own increasing rhythm. He could feel his own precum leaking, mixing with their sweat, making the sliding easier. This wasn’t going to take long, he was so ready, so completely, utterly full of desire for the man he held before him, a man he’d barely met but had fantasized about repeatedly; the man he already knew he could never get enough of.

The dogs barked louder again, the panels banging against the metal posts in measured beats.

John felt almost in a trance, one hand in Sherlock’s mouth where he could feel the pull and pressure on his fingertips and the tongue running expertly over them, which alone could have put him over the edge; the other hand on Sherlock’s cock, god how he wished he could see it better, but could tell by the feel and the sight of the tip above his fist that it was long and thick and he imagined it was beautiful, like the rest of him. He concentrated on Sherlock, barely hanging onto his control; he wanted to see him come first, come undone under his hands...

_Clang…clang…clang…_

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged and he slumped forward, knees buckling a little; but he was still holding onto the fence. Sherlock began to whimper and his hips began to move, but John only shoved his fingers into his mouth deeper so that he could not cry out too loudly. Sherlock was the first to come, his shout muffled into a gargled moan in his throat, while his whole body rammed backwards into John’s chest but John caught him.

The sight and sound of Sherlock in his release, the feel of his hot cum oozing over the top of his hand and down his fist was John’s own final undoing. His muscles began to contract all over and he moved faster and faster between Sherlock’s legs until with one last final thrust forward he cried out with a practiced muffled shout against Sherlock’s back, his own cum spurting unimpeded into the air in front of them, arcing out from between Sherlock’s thighs through the circles of the chain link fence, landing in a milky trail on the cement pad inside the empty kennel.

When they both came back to their senses, catching their breath, John’s hand finally slid from Sherlock’s mouth, leaving a glistening wet trail across his cheek on their way to his hair. He wound his fingers in again, roughly combing through the curls, loving the soft and glossy feel under his work-calloused fingertips, massaging in little circles. Sherlock’s head lolled back on his shoulders, giving himself over to John.

“Fuck, what you can make me do," John murmured. "Christ, practically in public, even. You’ve made me lose my head. Twice.” John nuzzled at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I’ll never be able to look at these kennels the same way again.” He ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls again, slid down to touch the back of his neck, his other hand still on Sherlock’s softening cock which he gently released. "Ok?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, momentarily unable to speak.

Reality was starting to come back to John. “I'm sorry. We probably shouldn’t have done that right here,” he said finally, reluctantly stepping away, aware of their surroundings again, now hearing the dogs that were still barking. He looked around. “We could have been seen.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

“Speaking of which, the gardener. He's coming. You should go while there’s still time.”

John pulled off his shirt and handed it to Sherlock for a quick clean up, then did the same when he handed it back. They both zipped up with unsteady hands and John leaned down to pick up Sherlock’s crutches, gently held them out so Sherlock could steady himself with them.

Before Sherlock left, he stroked his fingertips across Sherlock's cheek, lingering a moment while he memorized the feel of his skin and the exact color of his eyes, then said, “Come to me later, when you can.”

John could feel those eyes burning into his back when he turned away to walk to the barn.

Forgetting his cane for the second time in a week.


	9. Adoration

The next evening, Sherlock knocked on the door of the kennel master’s cottage. No one answered, so he let himself in, the door unlocked. He had John’s cane in his hand, found propped against the side of the barn. It was almost dark in the cottage, save for a sliver of light under a door that led to a bedroom, almost shut but not quite. Sherlock circled his fingers around the doorframe and pushed inwards, the hinges creaking. A dog barked. John was sitting on the edge of the bed in a pair of sweats, shirtless, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He looked tired, like he’d worked hard that day. A sheen of perspiration covered him, glistening almost like oil, defining the curve of his muscles. Sergeant was curled up next to him.

John’s head turned as he heard the creak of a hinge and the bark of the dog, and at the sight of Sherlock, he slowly stood up to face him.

“It’s about time,” John said softly, both relief and hunger in his eyes.

Sherlock’s heart began to pound faster as he took in the sight of him, his eyes wandering over his bare chest greedily, noting the dog tags nestled in the hair between his pecs, a few shrapnel scars scattered across his chest.

“You forgot your cane,” Sherlock said, holding it out to him, unable to express what he felt, unable to express his need, hiding behind an excuse.

“Oh,” John said, moving closer to him to take it. “I forgot all about it. You might have been right all along, I don’t think I need it anymore.”

Sherlock smiled. “That’s good.” Then he motioned towards Sergeant, lounging comfortably on the bed. “Do you always take in the hard luck cases?”

John glanced at Sergeant, then back to Sherlock. “I understand him, that’s all. More bark than bite.” Then he motioned towards Sherlock’s foot. “Speaking of forgetting things, you forgot your crutches.”

Sherlock looked down. “All better, the doctor says. I don’t have to wear the boot anymore. I won’t be running any races any time soon, but right as rain, otherwise.” And then he frowned, his eyes flicking back up to John. "So, ah, I guess I might be leaving sometime soon. Back to work, in London."

"Oh." John looked like he had been hit by a ton of bricks, but tried to collect himself. "Oh. So, what is it that you...do, then?"

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, actually," Sherlock said, with a hint of pride. "I solve cases no one else can. I sometimes consult for the police." He paused. "And others..."

"Like a private detective?"

"Something like that."

John didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at him. Then suddenly he closed the space between them, reached up and clasped the palm of his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to bring his head down to his.

“Then let’s stop wasting time, goddammit,” John whispered furiously, covering Sherlock's lips with his own.

Sherlock hesitated for one second, almost overwhelmed, almost intimidated to know they were alone in a private space; no one to interfere, no one to see, no reason to hurry, nothing to hide behind. He reached out and laid a hand flat against John Watson’s chest, tentatively, somewhere between desperately wanting to pull him in or push him away. John smelled like sweat and earth and dogs and wind, his lips tasted of mint and air. Suddenly his reserve broke and his hands flew to the waistband of John’s sweats, pushing them down, finding John bare underneath.

Needing no further urging, John began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt at record speed, one button catching and popping off in the process to roll across the floor and under the bed, a trail of shirts and trousers and sweats and shoes scattered haphazardly, hands now traveling over bare flesh. John started to back him towards the bathroom, his lips on his chest, his neck, his jawline. Once inside, John shut the door behind him, giving it a nudge to get past the paw and snout that Sergeant was attempting to wedge inside.

"I need to shower. I want to shower with you," John said, between kisses, reaching up with one hand to turn on the shower faucet while Sherlock stood behind him, running his hands reverently over John's back, kissing his scars. When the water was warm, John pulled Sherlock in with him.

Now standing face to face, Sherlock watched as John ducked his head under the water, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back like a golden animal lifting its face up to the sun, arms raised and hands in his hair, ruffling it a bit under the deluge. He hungrily watched the water slide down John’s face, his throat, his chest, over his abdomen, over his fully erect cock before falling in rivulets to the floor. He thought of what he’d said that day they met…

_...Let me tell you what I would do to that magnificent cock of yours if I was down there. I would get down on my knees in front of you..._

More aroused than maybe he had ever been before, Sherlock reached out and took hold of John’s hips and lowered himself to the floor on his knees, his face perfectly level with the cock that bobbed in front of him. He felt the water cut off, then felt John’s hands fist in his hair, shoving his face forward. A little rough, just like he liked it...just like he'd imagined. He opened his mouth and took it in, inch by inch, at first not taking it all and sucking and teasing, tracing the veiny ridges and slit and folds with the tip of his tongue, using his hand to stroke firmly while he continued to stroke and suck and lick to the sound of John’s low moans, which began to grow more and more desperate. He loved the salty taste of him, loved how he could bring him to the edge and back again, over and over, loved to watch him writhe in helpless pleasure.

After Sherlock was done working him to his satisfaction, he took him in for real. He was pulling on John’s hips to bring him forward at the same time John was shoving his head closer. He relaxed his throat and closed his eyes, felt the long length touch the roof of his mouth, now at the back of his mouth, now truly down inside his throat, the head of the cock pushing at a place that made him fight to control his reflex but which also felt so intensely, impossibly full and pleasurable it made him feel lightheaded from the lack of air and trembling desire and adrenaline that coursed through him.

His saliva was thick and copious but the slickness made it easier for John to feed his length in just that little bit more, until he was flush up against Sherlock’s lips. And then John began to tremble violently as he lost his careful control and began to thrust, pulling back a few inches each time but not all the way out, increasing in speed.

“God, Sherlock," John moaned, one hand still buried in his hair and holding his head just where he wanted it, while another hand brushed the wet curls away from Sherlock’s eyes looking up at him. Sherlock wanted John to see himself buried balls deep with his lips around him, wanted him to imagine the bulge in his throat that inflated and deflated with each thrust of his long cock, wanted John to see the look on his face of pleasure and pain, only for him; see the tears at the corner of his eyes mixing with saliva running freely from the corners of his mouth, mixing with drops of water from the shower head, still dripping down on them. Hoped he would see the adoration that he already felt so clearly written on his face, but that he would inevitably fail to tell him with words.

“Fuck,” John breathed again, “I’ve never seen anything so….you look so...fuck, you feel so good…Christ!” And then he began to rut in earnest for a few seconds more, then stilled, and with one long, last thrust, his cock jerked and visibly pulsed while spurting hot liquid down Sherlock’s throat, which Sherlock took in, every last bit of it.

And this time, John yelled when he came. He yelled so uninhibitedly it was almost a scream, echoing long and loud in the ceramic-tiled shower walls, followed by a few choice curse words. And when he finally softened and slid out of Sherlock’s mouth, he sagged down on his knees in front of Sherlock with hands still fisted in his hair and pulled his face to his and kissed him, kissed him hard; he must have been able to taste his own cum as he plundered his mouth with his lips and tongue and teeth, tasting and exploring every last corner of it, until they were both breathless and at last broke apart, each falling back on their arses to brace themselves up with their arms on the cold and wet tile floor, legs splayed out before them, looking at each other in wonder.

“Shit,” John finally said. “Where the hell did you learn _that_?”

“I’ve had a colorful past,” Sherlock said enigmatically, and left it at that. And then he grinned.

 

 


	10. Not Such a Bad Dog

The next morning, John Watson walked into the living room in nothing but his robe, toweling dry his hair, humming to himself. Feeling sore every place possible, but sated and happy. God, they’d been at it for hours, practically all night. He didn’t even know he could get it up that many times, it's not like he was all that young anymore. Not until he’d met Sherlock Holmes, that is, who made him feel like he was in high school all over again and turned him on like no one else ever had.

“Dr. Watson, I presume.”

He pulled the towel away from his face and was startled to find Mr. Pervy Umbrella Dude himself standing in the middle of the living room.

“Maybe,” he said warily. “Who’s asking?”

“Your bloody employer, that’s who. Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock sat silent at a table, dressed in a pair of John’s sweatpants but naked from the waist up, his hands balled into fists resting on the surface. A plate dusted with toast crumbs and an empty tea cup had been pushed to the side. Sergeant was lying by his feet, ears drawn back and eyes fixed on Mycroft.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Mycroft continued. “I go away for a month, and when I come back, I find my previous kennel master gone, replaced by god knows who! Some ruffian with a motorcycle and no real professional qualifications outside of a stint in the army, as far as I can tell, and all without my knowledge or permission. And then I find my brother missing from the main house, and where do I find him? Here! Shacking up with the new kennel master!” His face twisted into a show of distaste.

“This is not what it looks like,” Sherlock said quietly, seemingly detached, not looking at either of them.

John bristled at Mycroft’s imperious tone. He looked down at Sherlock. He could see the anger on Sherlock’s face, but knew he was feigning indifference; he could already read him like a book. He deliberately moved to Sherlock’s side and made a show of putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Actually, it _is_ just what it looks like. It looks like I just got out of the shower and that I’m stark naked under this robe and that the whole place smells like sex and that your brother is wearing my clothes and that obviously we fucked all night and that he spent the night here. Oh, and he’s just had some tea and toast. That’s about it, in a nutshell.”

Sherlock glanced up at John with an eyebrow raised, but didn’t say anything more.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose disdainfully again. “How domestic.”

“This isn't any of your business. Why the fuck do you care who your brother shags?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, reassessing John. “You’re very loyal, very fast.”

“No, I’m not. Not really,” he shot back. But John Watson already knew he was lying to himself. He was more than loyal to Sherlock Holmes, way more than that; he was in love with him. Desperately, irreversibly in love. And no one would ever hurt him again, not so long as he could help it. Something in his face must have given him away because Mycroft then smiled condescendingly, like he'd seen it all before.

“Are you sure you know what you're doing, Dr. Watson? Don’t believe everything you think you know about him. Don’t believe everything Sherlock tells you.”

The sound of chair legs scraping across the floor grabbed their attention as Sherlock abruptly stood up from the table, and all six eyes turned to him, dog included.

“For god’s sake, Mycroft. I’m not what I used to be. That was years ago and I’m tired of you hanging that over my head all the time.” He turned to John. “You may as well hear it all, and hear it directly from me. You already know I’m a bit of a manipulative, lying git. A posh and lazy prat with a silver spoon in my mouth. That much is obvious. But I also used to be an addict and a thief and a lot worse things than that. I’ve been in a lot of trouble, and when I say a lot, I mean a _lot_. The type that only my brother with his government connections could get me out of. So you see, I owe him. I have to consult for him, too, whether I like it or not."

John did not like what he had heard, but not for the reasons Mycroft thought. He didn’t give a shit what Sherlock used to be; he knew Sherlock was more than that, worth so much more than that.

John clenched his jaw in anger and squatted down on one knee to pet Sergeant, eerily calm and controlled.

“You should think about how you treat the things that you’re supposed to protect, Mr. Holmes,” he said, his voice low and a bit menacing, stroking Sergeant’s head. “Like this dog, for example, who depends on you, looks up to you. Whatever energy you put into a dog is what you get out. I dislike negative training techniques because it never ends well. Not for the dog...or for the master.” 

John looked back up again to stare directly at Mycroft. “But all dogs can change, with the proper redirection.”

Mycroft met and held John’s gaze. “How very interesting," he said caustically. "Thank you for that remedial dog training lesson."

But he continued to assess John for several more seconds until he finally looked away. Mycroft held out his umbrella before him to inspect casually, his brow furrowed. Another few long moments passed, the room completely silent, before he smiled thinly and turned back to John.

“I believe we may have got off on the wrong foot, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, then paused to clear his throat. “I'm not sure when I gave up on thinking things could change, but it's good to shake the dust off every now and then. You may carry on as kennel master. I don’t need a ‘yes man’ around here, I need results. God knows why, but obviously you think you can do some good, and you just might have the balls to succeed. With the dogs and…otherwise. But it won’t be easy. You’ll find my brother needs a firm hand.”

“Oh, I know. The firmer the better, he comes faster that way,” John hit back immediately, eliciting the first positive sign of life all morning from Sherlock, who snorted with amusement in the background.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again and sighed dramatically. But before he left, he pointed the tip of his umbrella at John.

“I’ll be watching you,” Mycroft said, but now with the barest hint of a smile on his face, then turned around and walked out the door of the cottage.

John let out his pent up breath with an explosive, “ _Wow_. Your brother’s a real dick.”

“Yes. Yes, he is..." Sherlock answered slowly. “That thing you just did, that was, um...good. No one has ever stood up for me before. No one but you.” And then he burst out laughing. “I don’t think anyone has _ever_ talked to Mycroft that way, and he liked it. Or you’d already have been thrown out on your arse by security. You’d better watch out or he’ll have you shackled to his bed.”

John pulled a face, then slowly stood up. “Ugh. You Holmes brothers have some serious kink going on.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock drawled provocatively, his eyes narrowing in a predatory way.

He began to advance on John, padding silently across the floor on bare feet, almost feline in his grace. John felt his mouth go dry as Sherlock stopped in front of him. He felt himself growing hard again already just looking at him, noting how his toned chest and surprisingly chiseled abs disappeared into the sweats that hung low on his lean hips. He felt almost lost in his desire for Sherlock; that rare combination of strength and beauty, raw intelligence, an almost feral masculinity. He could hardly believe that Sherlock seemed to desire him in return.

Sherlock frowned, then, just a little. “You already know,” he began hesitantly, “that I’m not good with people. I’m worse with...relationships.”

“Well, I’m no socialite. I’m probably better with dogs, myself,” John answered softly. “This isn’t a case you have to solve, Sherlock. Don’t think. Just...feel.”

Sherlock smiled slightly then, his eyes smoldering. “All right,” he agreed softly, then reached out to undo the sash of John’s robe. “If you say so.”

He brushed the sides wide open, ran his hands over John’s chest, now pushing lightly as he walked John backwards until John’s back was against the wall. Sherlock dipped his head down and brushed his lips over John's, then covered them with his own, tasting, exploring, until he pulled back slightly.

“I’m not such a bad dog, am I?” he whispered, sucking in John’s bottom lip, rolling it between his own slowly, lingering, then letting it go again. “Is there any hope I can be reformed?”

“Well,” John replied, faking serious thoughtfulness, his heart melting under Sherlock’s touch while his cock grew even harder. “I think there is hope, but it could take some time. We need to get on this situation right away, though, no time to waste. Quite a lot of hands on treatment, I should think, including a _lot_ of heavy petting. I may have to feed you every morning and every night and have you sleep in my bed. Every single night. There might be room next to Sergeant.”

At the sound of his name, Sergeant got up from where he had been lying and jogged over to them, squirmed in beside Sherlock and jumped up and laid his paws against John’s chest, just like Sherlock.

Sherlock nuzzled at his ear, nipped it a little. “I think I’ve been waiting for you all my life,” Sherlock whispered in that incredibly intoxicating voice. “What took you so long?”

John sucked in his breath, Sherlock’s lips now traveling down his throat, his body leaning harder into his, pinning him. “A million stupid things, Sherlock. None of it important now. I’m sorry I was late...”

“Better late than never…” said Sherlock, resting his head against John’s forehead.

Sergeant looked back and forth from John to Sherlock and barked, wagging his tail in excited approval.


End file.
